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By dee_ayy
April 21, 2000
Category: S, A, MT, fill-in
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Uh huh. For the 7th season episode “Brand X.” Be warned.
Disclaimer: Not Mine. Theirs. And I do wish they’d decide what they’re gonna do with them, already!
Feedback: Is like sunshine on a rainy day. dee_ayy@yahoo.com
Thanks: Specifically to Keryn and Peggy and Vickie and Laurel, for their encouragement on this one (and all of them!). And to them and several others (you know who you are) for helping me through a particularly bad month. Your concern has meant a lot, and it’s good to be back. And to all of you (I lost count at eleven) who wrote asking me to write a fill-in, thanks. You’ll never know how important that encouragement has been.
Summary: Skinner gains new insight into his agents, and himself, as they confront Mulder’s illness. Fill-in for “Brand X.”
_____________________
I Can Only Marvel
By dee_ayy
Agent Mulder is not one to hide his feelings, and I’ve always admired him for that. Always wished that I, too, was secure enough to let my emotions show without the belief that people would think less of me if they saw I was scared.
So when Mulder shows us the palm of his hand, and the blood there, the shock and fear is plain to see on his face. And though I am surely feeling the same thing, I bet it doesn’t show on mine.
But then, I’m sure no one is looking. As is so often the case with these two, they are oblivious to my presence. Mulder just stares back at his hand, and whispers her name. It is a whisper that says, at the same time, “Oh my God” and “Help me.”
And Scully. She takes his hand in hers, presses a tissue into it and folds the fingers over, eliminating the visual evidence of what is happening. And she says “Oh, Mulder” in a way that says, at the same time, “Don’t be scared” and “I’m scared.”
And me. I just stand there, watching this unfold in about a minute that seems more like an hour. But I’m their boss. I’m in charge. I should take charge. So I pull out my cell phone and announce my intention to call for an ambulance.
It seems to bring these two back to the present, and Scully tells me no. They’ll drive. Can I drive? Of course I can drive.
Mulder coughs again, this time leaving the crimson stain on the tissue, which he inspects for a second and tosses away as if it is on fire. He stifles another, and I don’t blame him; I wouldn’t want to cough either, knowing what might be brewing in there. I take my handkerchief from my pocket and hand it to him. But I don’t--I can’t--look at him. I feel it leave my grasp, so I pull my hand back to my side, but still I don’t look. I’m afraid to make eye contact with him. Afraid of what he’ll see. Afraid of what I’ll see.
As we leave the room, Scully tells us to keep going and she’ll catch up. She wants to go back in and take a sample of the larvae from that lung. She’s gone longer than it should take to accomplish that goal, but I don’t question what she was doing.
+ + + + + +
I’m not sure why I feel so damn guilty. Why I feel so responsible. I put them in danger all the time. It’s my job, for God’s sake. It’s their job.
But when I steal glances at this pair in the back seat, I feel like the lowest of the low. Mulder sitting there, stifling each cough as best he can, Scully sitting as close as one can without actually touching, wincing with each suppression. I hear her whispering platitudes, telling him it will be all right. At one point she even suggests that maybe it’s not what they think, maybe it’s something else entirely. Mulder looks at her with eyes that say, at the same time, “Don’t be ridiculous” and “Thanks for the effort.”
And then he coughs again. It’s a long fit that doubles him over. Scully moves the few inches that she must in order to be able to embrace him, and does just that. She puts her arm around his back and holds him tight until the coughing subsides.
As a result of her position, each spasm that racks through his body is transmitted to hers as well, and through the mirror I see them both, riding out the wave together.
And again, I feel the pangs of guilt. I brought them here. I did this to Mulder. I am responsible. And there isn’t a damn thing I can do about it.
When he is done, his hand that still holds my handkerchief is clenched tightly into a fist. He has no intention of looking at what it holds. Scully takes his hand lightly, prompting him to open it, which he does not do. But she needs to see; needs to know. So she pries it open, and he lets her. But still he doesn’t look, choosing instead to look forward--causing our eyes meet briefly through the rearview mirror.
I avert my glance immediately, pretending to put my attention back on the road ahead.
But in that second of contact I see no blame in his eyes. No recrimination. No placement of responsibility.
Just fear, and maybe disbelief.
+ + + + +
As we arrive at the hospital I watch their demeanor change. Both of them. It’s an unspoken communication, an unspoken mutual decision about the best tack to take. Scully becomes determined, all business. Mulder represses the fear, even panic, that he is no doubt feeling. They adopt an air of calm professionalism that I am positive neither of them feel.
But I understand. I do it all the time myself. Within yourself you may want to run through the doors screaming for help, demanding immediate action. But they both know that’s not the way it works. Mulder, I know, has learned this the hard way. Act like a lunatic, get treated like one.
Scully tells me to pull up to the ER doors, and wait with Mulder while she goes inside. He tries to protest, and she stops him, telling him that we don’t know if we are dealing with a contagion or not. He can’t just go wandering in through the front doors.
Christ, it hadn’t even occurred to me. But of course. Has he been infecting everyone he has breathed on? Everyone he’s touched? Everyone he’s coughed on? Scully? Me?
I take a deep breath, and am relieved that I can.
Scully goes inside, and I get out and go around to Mulder’s door, open it and wait. I want, I need, to make some sort of visible show that I’m not afraid I’ll catch what he has. Though of course I am.
Mulder swings his legs out the door, but remains seated, and almost immediately starts to cough. Another raging fit of hacking, like before. I look to the ER doors, hoping that Scully is about to appear, but there is no one there. I don’t know what to do. Scully held him--was there a medical reason for that, or was it merely comfort? I have no idea.
So I squat down by his side, and settle for putting my hand on his knee, and asking if he’s all right, if he needs me to get him some help. Of course he’s coughing too much to respond.
I feel inept and powerless and helpless. And responsible. Oh, so responsible.
When he finishes, Mulder’s lips are tinged with blood, and he collapses against the back of the seat. I ask him if there is anything I can do, and he shakes his head no. Our eyes meet again for a moment, and again I am the one compelled to break the connection and look away.
Scully returns with a woman wearing a mask and pushing a wheelchair. The woman stops by Mulder, and with no explanation whatsoever to her patient, fits a mask over his mouth and nose before she moves him into the wheelchair. I guess she figures we know why she’s done that, and of course we do.
As we go inside, Scully again tells an abbreviated version of Mulder’s plight. And as she does, I am struck by how unbelievable a tale it is. But Scully presents it with no apologies to its fantastic nature; she’s used to this, I realize, and her sole concern is getting help for Mulder. And the woman doesn’t laugh out loud. No, she has seen our badges--those pieces of tin that miraculously provide instant credibility. She takes us straight to a room labeled “Isolation.”
For a moment I wonder if this is where I should peel off and head to the waiting room. I certainly can’t be of any help to them. But I don’t. I follow, ready to dare anyone to try and send me away. No one takes the dare.
It turns out that when she went back for her sample, Scully had called ahead. She has identified the man she wants, a lung specialist, a Doctor Schulman. When he’s not there, she demands he be paged immediately. Her insistent voice is edged with panic. I can hear it. And so can Mulder.
The three of us know how bad this is. The staff will find out soon enough.
+ + + + +
The speed with which things happen startles, even frightens me. So much so that when some young woman tries to usher me out of the room, I refuse. I’m not even aware it is my plan to stay. Wasn’t aware of the lengths I’d go to until I hear the words coming out of my mouth “Agent Mulder is potentially a victim of a crime, or at the very least a material witness. I am not leaving the room.” It’s all bullshit, but I say it anyway, and she leaves me alone.
Except they make me stand in the corner, which is fine with me, actually, and wear a mask.
That’s the scariest part of all. When people swooped in on the room, they were wearing masks and gloves and gowns. They forced Scully to dress the same. Universal precautions. Fear of a contagion. Everyone is swathed in surgical garb. Everyone but Mulder--or “Patient Zero” as he calls himself in an attempt to relieve the tension, to calm himself and those around him. I look at these other people, and no one’s eyes register a response to his quip. No one’s but Scully’s. I see the corners of hers indicate that she’s smiling, and she gives his hand a brief squeeze.
Another trait I admire this man for--his ability to make light during the most dire situations. It’s a defense mechanism that serves him, and his partner, well.
The doctor is incredulous to Scully’s explanation of what ails her partner, despite her credentials. This is no surprise. When she pulls the jar of larvae from her pocket, I can see some of the people in the room grimace and look at Mulder, trying to reconcile themselves with the idea that those things are growing inside of him.
But not the doctor. He nods solemnly and begins his examination. Listening, feeling, ordering x-rays and blood tests. The x-ray machine is brought in and taken out. Blood is drawn and an IV is started, oxygen is administered.
It all happens fast--in minutes, virtually. And through it all Scully never leaves her partner’s side. Mulder never panics or complains as long as she’s there. When a question is asked, he answers as best he can, then defers to her if he thinks she can add something. Sometimes he defers to her entirely, and she responds.
They do something to his wrist. Stick him with a needle and it’s the only time I hear Mulder cry out. His entire body instinctively tries to remove itself from the pain being inflicted, and he arches away. But Scully is there to calm him, and she does. But Jesus Christ, what are they doing to him.
“They need to draw blood from an artery in his wrist, to test it,” a young woman near me says kindly. “It’s very painful, but necessary.” She startles me. I hadn’t realized I’d said anything aloud, but it’s quite obvious I had. I nod to her, but say nothing.
I’m feeling numb; completely out of my element. I don’t belong here, I know that. But I can’t leave.
So rather than focus on what they are doing to Mulder, which I don’t understand anyway, and which someone can explain later, I watch my two agents. And it’s something to see.
They’re quite a pair. And it’s when I glimpse them at moments like this that I am reminded how very close they are. That they care first and foremost for each other. That when one is cut, the other bleeds. It is Scully who makes it possible for Mulder to remain calm in the face of death. He knows she will do everything possible to help him. He doesn’t have to ask, she doesn’t have to offer. It’s a given, and it’s mutual.
What a comfort it must be, knowing that there is someone out there willing to go to such lengths for you. I wonder what it feels like--I’ve never felt it; I know that, not even in my marriage. My experiences and my life have left me unable to put such complete and unconditional trust in another human being. And suddenly I realize that I’m envious. A twist of fate brought those two together, and something bigger was created. What a miracle that is.
A miracle that it about to be undone, because I didn’t know what I was getting them in to.
Mulder’s x-ray is returned, and put up on the wall. Even from across the room I can see it. It looks like those Godawful x-rays of smokers’ lungs that they used in those antismoking ads years back. There are patches of white where healthy black should be.
Still resisting, the doctor suggests that maybe it’s a tumor, or an abscess. Scully is losing patience, it is obvious, but she keeps her calm. She points out that Mulder had a clear chest x-ray not more than a month ago, and who ever heard of tumors popping up in the same place in both lungs at the same time?
He mentions a needle biopsy. She disagrees. They lose me with the medical details, so I look to Mulder again. He is sitting on the gurney, still dressed from the waist down, hooked to all sorts of things--heart monitor, IV, you name it. His eyes are closed, and his breathing is ragged and labored.
He must feel my eyes, because he opens his and looks at me. His look is impassive for a moment, and then he says something to me.
“Can you believe this?”
No, Agent Mulder, I cannot. But before I can say anything, he starts to cough. Badly. He leans forward over his knees, and before anyone can get him a cloth or a bowl or something, he has coughed more blood into the palm of his hand. A beeping noise starts, and when I follow the sound I see that it is his heart rate that has elevated to the point of alarm.
Scully leaves the doctor in mid-sentence and returns to Mulder’s side. Again she lets her arm circle his back until the coughing subsides, but she does not speak. She does not need to. He knows.
The coughing seems to have convinced the doctor of something, and he approaches Mulder and talks to him at length. I see my agent nod, and often look to Scully. She nods to him when he does that, obviously agreeing with what the doctor is saying. I want desperately to move closer, to hear what they are talking about, what they are going to do, but my feet stay planted.
It’s not my place. It’s not my business. I know I could make it my business, they are my agents; it is my case after all. But it’s not my place, and I know it. These are battles they wage together. They don’t need me there, so I stay where I am.
People leave. Forms are signed. A course of action has clearly been decided upon. As the doctor goes by me on the way out, I hear him saying that they should be set up in about 10 minutes. Set up for what, I do not know.
Soon there are only the three of us and one nurse in the room. I could approach them now, I know. Find out what they are going to do. Scully is obviously explaining something to her partner, using her hands animatedly--I think to show how something will go down his throat. At least that’s how it looks. It doesn’t seem to be a private conversation, but I can’t step in. I’m not sure why, but it feels wrong. I could apologize for doing this to Mulder. I could offer my support. I could go up to them and say any number of things that need to be said.
But I do nothing, and when Scully finishes her explanation, and their conversation clearly turns private and intimate, I take that as my cue and leave the room. This is their time, and what I can do is give it to them.
As I’m pulling the mask off my face outside the doors, I stop a woman on her way in. “Excuse me,” I ask her. “Can you tell me what they are planning to do?”
She looks at me for a moment, and apparently decides that I can know. “They’re going to take him to an OR and look down into his lungs,” she says simply.
“Can’t they do that here?” They can do that in doctor’s offices, I know.
She clearly doesn’t like having to explain. “They could, but it’s,” she pauses. “It’s a special case. They don’t know what they’ll find, what they will need to do. They’ll be more prepared in an OR. They’ll take a biopsy. Maybe do some suction. I’m not really sure. Look, I have to get in there.” And she’s gone through the doors.
I look after her, back into the room, and I watch them again. Scully has one hand on the gurney above his head, and the other rests lightly on his forearm. Their eyes are locked on one another, and she is speaking. Though there are several other people in the room by now, it is as if they are the only ones there. Her words are only for him, and I can only imagine what she’s saying.
Actually, no, I cannot. I have no idea. It’s a solitary life I lead; that I have chosen. Playing both sides against the middle--leaving me, out of necessity, alone. And it’s at times like this, when I see them going through this horrible thing together, when I realize that there is no one to tell me that everything is going to be okay and it’s not my fault, that I realize how shortsighted my choices have been.
Equipment is gathered, the mask is put back on Mulder’s face, and they are on the move. Scully does not see me as they approach; her undivided attention is devoted to the man in the bed. But Mulder, he does look at me.
And he isn’t afraid. It’s amazing how one person can manage to make another unafraid in the face of a terrifying situation. But that’s what Scully has done for him now. It’s what he does for her when she needs it.
And I can only marvel at what that
must feel like.
THE END.